


Please Mr. Postman

by Dragonie



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Not Really Actually Any Romance, Unless I Decide to Continue it I Guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11765127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonie/pseuds/Dragonie
Summary: The multiverse contains an infinite number of possibilities, but two things are constant across all parallel worlds:1) Ulysses is always supremely, intensely Extra, and2) He really hates that Goddamn Mailman.Written for the August Month of Fanfiction Challenge, Day 10: "An AU".





	Please Mr. Postman

_Chapter 1: In Which Fate Brings Two Mailmen Together, and One is Very Cross_

 

                “If war proved one thing, it’s that _appeasement_ never lasts.” Ulysses talked as he worked, spraying careful touches of blue onto his mural, never so much as glancing at the laptop he had precariously set up on a dumpster lid. Trying something a bit different today; a livestream. “Lesson in that, one Eagle would do well to heed.”

                His vlogs enjoyed a modest but loyal following on Youtube, had viewers tuning in to hear him speak on history and politics, make his art and his explorations in the ruins of Vegas, legacies left behind in this city of dashed hopes and failed dreams. Hadn’t planned on it, at first; liked to talk as he worked, get his thoughts in the open. Filmed them, in case anyone would listen (and, perhaps, to feel less of a madman, muttering to himself in abandoned buildings), had been surprised to find that they _would_. Something powerful in that, people over the world hearing what he had to say; wasn’t just shouting into the void after all.

                (Commenter once described his channel as “beat poetry meets history lecture meets street art meets urbex.” He’d been mildly pleased by that.)

                Led a simple life, outside of his channel. Worked as a courier for the Mojave Express to pay his bills; job might not have had the best salary but it gave him freedom to move. Was never made for an office job, not built for wage slavery. Was a man of simple needs and no desire to toil simply to line the pockets of the greedy and corrupt.

                “Follow a belief, need to stand for it proudly; fall, otherwise.” He shook up the can of white paint, stencilled in stars to match the stripes. “Easy road never holds; not worth the trade of convictions to take.” Mural was finished but for one thing. He took a step back to cast a critical eye over his work, picked up the can of red to put in his signature.

                “Choose a road, then walk it all the way, stop for nothing–”

                If he’d been less absorbed in his work or his monologue, he might’ve seen the woman on a bicycle barrelling towards him, and the course of both their histories might have been very different.

 

* * *

 

                The pavement burned in the Nevada sun as Jane Finn pedalled hard. Been a bit too caught up in an “interestin’” detour on this route, and now her title as the Fastest Courier in the West (self-awarded as it may have been) was in serious danger.

                She did boast some of the fastest delivery times of all the Mojave Express bike couriers, although god only knew _how_ between all the detours and the sidetracks. Perhaps it was her habit of taking shortcuts through rough trails and neighbourhoods that most couriers gave a wide berth. Perhaps it was the fact that she rode that mountain bike of hers like a hound out of hell. Either way, she had a reputation to maintain, and she was damned if she was going to let it slip now.

                She took a left off Cheyenne, narrowly dodged a pedestrian, ignored his subsequent torrent of complaints. Adjusted her old cowboy hat (kept the sun off her face, she claimed, even if some of her _ruder_ co-workers told her it made her look like a goddamn tourist), winced as it rubbed against the still-healing stitches on her forehead.

                (Weird fucking business, that; she’d been mugged by a bunch of thugs about a week ago, one of them wearing the ugliest suit she’d ever seen. Seemed to want her package; hadn’t a clue why, but Mojave Express had not been sympathetic to her plight at all and there was talk of a _significant_ fine for lost goods. She figured if she ever saw that checkered-suit-wearing motherfucker again she was going to kick him right in the goddamn teeth.)

                Hung a right into one of the dodgier districts, though it wasn’t so bad in broad daylight. This part of town had been hit hard by the recession, dotted with abandoned business and aborted building projects like a rash. Dealer’s paradise after sundown, but at this time of day it made a pretty good shortcut, could go as fast as you liked without worrying about hitting somebody.

                Sped up towards half-finished apartment complex. Locals called it “the Gray” from its brutalist concrete façade, although the place attracted squatters and street artists like flies and its bare face had long been plastered over with a cacophony of murals and tags (not to mention an unsurprising number of crudely-drawn penises). This was a familiar path: cut through the parking lot at the back, where weeds grew out of cracked asphalt, past the broken chain link fence, across the road that no one ever seemed to drive along, down that weird alleyway that always stank faintly of piss, and she’d be halfway to the south Boulevard before she knew it. She reached the Gray at a speedy pace, took the corner at a skid–

                –And collided with an unexpected graffiti artist lurking around the back, knocking him off his feet and his cans all over the damn place.

                “Shit, sorry, dude!” Jane called over her shoulder, but kept on cycling. (Would have stopped to help, in more innocent times, but the last time she did that, her “unfortunate victim” had turned out to be a very unhappy Hell’s Angel, and it taken all her wits to hide from _that_ one. Besides, she was in a hurry.)

                She reached the Boulevard in a guilty rush, delivered the package, got paid, went home, slept, and forgot all about it.

                _He_ , on the other hand, was not so lucky.

 

* * *

 

                Ulysses had hoped the matter would be over when he deleted the offending stream, with its inglorious end, from his channel. But, as it happened, he was dead wrong (because _of course_ he was; too much to hope, that things go _smoothly_ for once). Some _nameless_ coward, _grasping_ at the prospect of brief fame, _heedless_ of the consequences of his actions (this was Ulyssese for “fucking motherfucker”) had recorded the last few minutes of video. Worse still, they’d uploaded it to that place of meaningless noise, panderer to those who couldn’t keep a thought in their head for more than six seconds and wished to be coddled for it: _Vine_. The Vine went something like this:

                _Ulysses’ gaze is intense as he finishes off his mural, signing it with his own personal symbol in vivid red in the upper right._

_“Choose a road, then walk it all the way, stop for nothing–”_

_A woman on a bicycle with a cowboy hat and a carrier bag slams into him out of nowhere, knocking him off his feet, the fall leaving a garish red smear across the middle of his artwork like an ugly scar. Spray cans fly everywhere._

_“Shit, sorry, dude!” A voice cries from out of frame, after a beat. A solitary spray can rolls into view._

                And, of course, the internet being its usual pit of inane frivolity, the Vine becomes wildly popular, gaining more hits in a matter of hours than all of his videos put together. No, worse yet, it becomes a _meme_ , that last desperate stab at wittiness for those who’ve never had an original idea of their own in their lives. Stills of his ignominious fall circulate the web with such truly _stupid_ captions as “when u walk into class n the teacher tells u u got a test” or “when u tell them 2 b honest n they honest” or the omnipresent “mood.” He was humiliated, made to look a fool in front of an audience of millions, and he was, to be quite honest, fucking _pissed_.

                Meanwhile, the courier (knew she was a courier; would recognise that damn symbol on her bag anywhere) took on an almost legendary status (despite the fact that she was _clearly_ in the wrong, there; proof, perhaps, that there was no justice in the world). No, _she_ was valorised, shots of her gaining such admiring comments as “step on me *heart eyes*” or “me on my way to steal ur man” or “move i’m gay”.

                (Granted, one of the most common comments on the vine itself was, “what the fuck is up with the cowboy hat??” but he hardly felt that was equal to the indignities visited upon him.)

                He may have gained a few new followers from the incident, but his comments were now inundated with jokes at his expense, all leading back to that one hateful moment, and that _courier_.

                Something changed in his vlogs that day. He’d still make his art and give his monologues and discuss the history of Vegas ruins, his followers noted, but there was always the incongruous inclusion of a rambling tirade against That One Courier who knocked him over that day. It did draw him some attention, even after the fifteen minutes of fame had run their course; there were some who thought this focused hatred of one particular postal worker, buried among the art and the history, lent a certain surreal fascination to the whole affair. This did not exactly serve as a comfort to him.

                Jane, meanwhile, being a social media dinosaur (she had an Instagram full of pictures of cool dogs she’d seen on her routes and that was about it) (and yes, “cool dogs” included coyotes), had not the slightest fucking clue that any of this was going on.

 

* * *

 

                There was a knock on the door of Ulysses’ dilapidated apartment; the doorbell had stopped working long before he moved into the place. He didn’t need luxury – didn’t mind the short stint he spent squatting in the Gray, much, except that the other vagrants kept stealing his books – so it made sense to choose the cheapest place he could find, spend his money on things he actually cared for. It was a run-down, one-room place in what was derisively thought of as the “bad side of town,” usually by people who lived in neighbourhoods that hid crimes just as horrific behind closed doors and respectable smiles.

                He padded across the stained linoleum, already knowing what is was about. No one ever came to his door but deliverymen, and he’d recently ordered a few fascinating-looking books about early twentieth century vexillology online.

                He opened the door to find a _far-too-familiar_ face grinning at him from the doorstep. She was even wearing that same ridiculous hat. His nemesis, that goddamn _Courier_ …

                “Delivery for Ulysses, uh…” She squinted at the delivery form. “Ulysses Grant?” She gave him a wry look, not even the tiniest sign of recognition on her face. “‘Kay, let me give you a little tip, my guy. No disrespect to the General or nothin’, but you want to give a fake name, maybe give somethin’ that folks’ll actually _believe_.”

                He glared at her in stunned silence, took in her casual smile, her over-familiar chatter.

                How did she not recognise him? Did she crash into pedestrians with such alarming regularity that it no longer registered in her – wait, no, of _course_ she did.

                “Uh, you still with me, here?” She waved a hand in front of his face.

                “Means nothing to me, what they believe,” he said brusquely, snapping out of it. “Name’s just a tool; no need for deception in it.”

                The courier raised her eyebrows, shrugged a bony shoulder.

                “All right, Mr. Badass, I get the picture.” She rifled around in her Mojave Express™ carrier bag, pulled, out a thick parcel from her satchel, proffered it to him. He reached out to take it, then stopped.

                This… this _madwoman_ had preyed on his thoughts for so long; spent _ages_ , imagining who his hated enemy might be. Didn’t seem right, that she just hand over the delivery and go back to her life and forget him a _second_ time and leave him as furious as he was before.

                “…You okay there? I got another stop after this, so if you don’t mind–”

                “Don’t recognise me?”

                She peered at him, shook her head.

                “Should I?”

                “Met before.”

                The courier looked puzzled for a second, and then narrowed her eyes.

                “Okay,” she said wearily, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, look, I think I see where this is goin’, and if you are about to ask me to ‘handle your package,’ the answer is _fuck_ no and I don’t care _what_ the pornos you been watchin’ told you.”

                He stared at her for several seconds, the script he had written in his head for this moment completely and utterly derailed.

                “That… Not what I meant.”

                She gave him a blank look.

                “Oh. Really? Uh, sorry about that, then. Been a rough week.” ( _Makes two of us_ , he didn’t say.) The courier fidgeted awkwardly, glanced anywhere but at him. “Uh. Nice place you got here. Very cosy.”

                “Courier, you–” A buzzing from her pocket interrupted him. She gestured at him to give her a minute, pulled out her phone.

                “Shit, that’s my boss.” She flicked through a text. “I gotta dash. You take this–” She shoved clipboard and parcel into his arms. “An’ sign here–” Thrust a pen at him. “An’ then I say ‘Thank you for usin’ the services of Mojave Express, trademark,’ an’ leave.”

                “Not finished; more to say,” he protested. (Found himself signing anyway, though; didn’t quite know why.)

                “Okay, well,” she looked thoughtful, then took a scrap of paper from her pocket, produced another pen from somewhere within her jacket. “I got no time to chat, but if you say you know me–” Scribbled something on the paper. “You take this number and shoot me a text, tell me what you’re so desperate to say.”

                She pushed the paper into his hand, grabbed the clipboard back from him (forgot the pen), hopped on her bicycle, and cycled off, all with him standing there like an idiot, too blindsided to stop her.

                He glanced at the crumpled bit of paper she’d given him (later investigation would prove it to be an old Mexican takeout receipt from several months ago). On it was scrawled a number, and a name:

                “Jane Finn.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could take credit for this fabulous AU idea, but it's actually the brainchild of my dear friend Shimmertrap! Go check her out! :)


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